


Theory and Practice of Making Out with a Demon

by EdnaV



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Is Soft, Crowley is protective, First Kiss, Fluff, Humour, Ineffable Idiots, Love Confession, M/M, aziraphale feels guilty, crowley is soft, ineffable husbands, the author is projecting like an IMAX, they acted like a married couple anyway, they're both terribly clumsy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22361584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdnaV/pseuds/EdnaV
Summary: Aziraphale knew how kissing worked. As an angel, he was a being of love, and most of his miracles touched on the more human forms of love; as some of these miracles involved physical manifestations of love of the romantic nature, Aziraphale had even acquired more than a passing knowledge of the etiquette of kissing throughout the ages.An angel and a demon finally kiss, and they find out that some activities are easier in theory than in practice.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 66
Kudos: 310
Collections: Break in Case of Emergency: Fluff and Love, Chaotic Omens: The Fallout of a Big Bang, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Ixnael’s SFW corner





	Theory and Practice of Making Out with a Demon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Marleenam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marleenam/gifts).



> For [marleenam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marleenam/), who asked on the Good Omens Big Bang Discord server: _why people always write first kisses to be romantic and perfect, why not embarrassing and awkward because they don't know what they're supposed to do and where to place their hands and "what is air and how to breath and oh my god I hope my breath doesn't smell??"_

Aziraphale knew how kissing worked. As an angel, he was a being of love, and most of his miracles touched on the more human forms of love; as some of these miracles involved physical manifestations of love of the romantic nature, Aziraphale had even acquired more than a passing knowledge of the etiquette of kissing throughout the ages. Aziraphale had always made a point of being a thorough and competent miracle worker. The fact that he occasionally outsourced a few miracles to a certain demon didn’t change the point: he trusted this demon to be as thorough and competent as himself, although he was unable to put into words _why_ he was so sure. 

So, Aziraphale knew very well everything pertaining to the theory of kissing. He was a man-shaped creature of this world, as he liked to say, with a smile that wasn’t exactly smug but didn’t hide the satisfaction of sharing a well-crafted pun. 

But, sharing well-crafted puns aside, Aziraphale had always considered himself a solitary being. The only other face that had been a constant throughout his time on Earth (six thousand and twenty-four years, and counting) was an enemy agent and a hereditary enemy, and Aziraphale had always made a point of being a good, reliable and trustworthy angel. The fact that said hereditary enemy, who incidentally coincided with the aforementioned miracle-worker demon, had turned out to be pleasant company for a tea, or a casual chat while feeding the ducks in St James’s Park, or a stroll through the less busy galleries of the British Museum, or a night at the opera, or a glass of scotch back in the office of the bookshop — well, that didn’t change the point. Aziraphale was a solitary angel. 

And it’s not like Heaven actually valued companionship, in general. Angels were invited to enthusiastically join in the chorus of the Angelic Hosts, to share their mystical experiences after the group briefings, to take part in the team building activities that Gabriel was so fond of organising. But showing a preference for someone, especially if not justified by anything more than a feeling, is unbecoming of an angel. As for public displays of affection, it is well known how they can be embarrassing, often clumsy; and Heaven is not a place to be embarrassing, let alone clumsy. 

So, in practice, Aziraphale knew exactly nothing about kissing. 

_Not that it matters, of course_ , he told himself, before mumbling something about _dignity, always dignity_ , and _now where is that first edition of Jane’s?_ and _am I out of milk? maybe the off licence’s still open, I could take some time to say a prayer in St. Anne’s on my way there, indeed, I should thank Her for Her help during that awful business in Oxfordshire, or ask for Her forgiveness, I wonder which one, maybe both? I definitely am as far from a perfect angel as one could be, so..._

It was in that moment that the locked door swung open. Before Aziraphale could say a word, Crowley had sauntered into the office, let his body fall on the sofa in a configuration that would’ve defied the integrity of most human bodies, and spent a total amount of zero seconds on greetings. 

“The Ritz or 47 Jermyn Street, angel?” he asked. 

“I’m out of—” replied the angel. He didn’t need to complete the sentence. He never did, of late: Crowley always seemed to read his thoughts. Aziraphale didn’t mind: he felt less interrupted than embraced into a conversation. 

“I don’t know why you refuse to miracle—” the demon complained. 

“You know that I like to patronise the local businesses, my dear, their rent—” 

“Point. Sorry if I forgot to—” 

“The one who’s trying to evict those three ladies in Brewer Street, if you—” 

“His wife is enjoying the pictures that” — Crowley clicked his fingers — “have just arrived in her inbox. So, high tea or truffle cheese toastie?” 

“Milk, as I was saying.” 

Crowley’s bony frame was occupying most of the sofa, but he evidently could stretch it even more, because he managed to throw his head further back. 

“So, a _stroll_?” he sighed, as if he were contemplating a terrible waste. “Care if I—” 

“Of course, although I was considering to spend some time praying in—” 

Aziraphale could almost _hear_ Crowley’s eyes rolling behind his sunglasses. 

“Still torn about saving the world, angel? Or do you just enjoy watching me hop around like—” 

“I’m sorry.” 

The angel’s face was suddenly grave. There was a moment of silence, the kind of silence that usually ends up with hasty apologies and _oh blimey I’ve forgot that I have a flight to Tasmania to catch in an hour, let’s not talk about how you risked life and limb to save me from an embarrassing predicament of my own making, eighty years, six months, five days, and eighteen hours ago, counting from the moment our fingers brushed when you returned me that bag with my favourite books that I had completely forgotten about; not that I’m counting, of course._

This silence ended up with Crowley simply saying, “no need to be sorry, angel. I know your job description.” 

Aziraphale showed a tentative smile and an attempt to change the subject. 

“So, milk. Maybe—” 

“Sugar?” 

“I should have—” 

“Biscuits?” 

“Where would I be without you, my—” 

“You’d be out of Jaffa cakes, angel.” 

Crowley was back on his feet, stretching his neck. 

Aziraphale had known Crowley for more than six millennia (six thousand and twenty-three years and a few months, to be precise), and he still wasn’t completely able to make sense of the way that the demon shifted his weight, or apparent lack thereof. He had often wondered if he used some kind of miracle to spring out of the recesses of the old sofa. He had never inquired, though: it felt like prying, like making fun of another gentleman (or at least another gentle-supernatural-being), like crossing an unspoken boundary. 

It was probably the aftershock of the embarrassment about the _oh Good Lord, I probably shouldn’t mention churches in his presence_ that made him blurt out, “how do you do that?” 

_“That?”_

“The way you move when you get up—” 

“It’s just how I— And, angel, you _have been_ in this body—” 

Aziraphale shuddered. 

“To be honest, my dear, I still don’t know how I managed to pass as you during that— _affair_. I’m most grateful that I don’t need to sleep, or I suspect that I’d have to deal with some ghastly nightmares. Anyway, your movements are always so _graceful—_ ” 

The angel realised that his mind had entered another minefield: _that time I inhabited your body, and you inhabited mine, and the exhilaration from holding your hand was as intense as the one that came from averting the Apocalypse and saving ourselves from both Heaven and Hell, and after that lunch at the Ritz we both felt as if_ something _could’ve happened, or at least I did, though I’m not exactly sure what this_ something _could’ve been, but anyway we were tired, and understandably so, and you slept for three weeks, and I had a whole new bookshop to catalogue anyway, and here we are, five months later, and we—_

His thoughts jumbled together and turned into a vague _Crowley, please, save me._

Because that’s what Crowley always did. 

Crowley had a way to arrive at the eleventh hour, be it hopping on consecrated ground, riding in a flaming Bentley, or simply sauntering in an outfit that single-handedly proved that black, red, and attitude are all you need to be flamboyant; he’d arrive, and he’d return both Aziraphale and himself to the relative comfort of their tried-and-tested Arrangement. 

This time, Crowley didn’t. 

The fact that the Arrangement had been made void by such a tiny detail as a failed Apocalypse, not to mention the murderous intentions of a few Archangels of Heaven and Lords of Hell, might’ve had something to do with it. 

Or maybe it was something else; maybe just the way the light filtered through the shop window. 

“ _Graceful_ ,” said the demon, with a curious expression. 

Aziraphale felt himself blushing, then becoming very pale. 

“Silly me,” he apologetically mumbled, and made to leave the office. 

Crowley moved in the same direction, adjusting his hair, and he bumped into the angel at an angle that sent him back on the sofa. 

“ _Graceful_ ,” he repeated, and he smiled. “ _Really?_ ” 

Suddenly, they were laughing. 

As an angel and a demon, neither of them needed to breathe. 

As creatures of this world, both of them had gotten used to it, so much that they could feel faint if they didn’t do it for a while. 

Aziraphale’s head was spinning, and he found himself sitting next to Crowley on the sofa. 

Very close. 

Leaning into him. 

Hanging on to his shoulder, while trying to recover his breath. 

Feeling Crowley’s hand on his own shoulder. 

Looking up. 

Asking himself a question to which the answer was _he knows about kissing just as much as you do._

Smiling, and losing himself in Crowley’s smile. 

Then their teeth collided, reminding them of the existence of lips. 

For some ineffable reason, Aziraphale felt that he simply couldn’t help himself, he _had to_ touch Crowley’s upper lip with his own. 

Their noses and the three-dimensional Euclidean geometry of human space seemed to disagree with the angel’s plan. 

Their noses and Euclid won. 

For good measure, Aziraphale’s nose also managed to smudge one lens of Crowley’s glasses; a second try led to a smudge on the other one. 

Crowley’s hand moved from Aziraphale’s back for the second it needed to send the glasses flying on the floor; as if he were afraid to get lost, Aziraphale grasped him as tight as he was able to do it with one arm, the other one being stuck between his own body and the sofa. A tiny part of his brain resolved that _yes, you do need a minor miracle to get up from here_ ; not a single neurone managed to decide whether to pull Crowley to sit on his lap, or to move forwards and straddle him. 

The standoff could’ve been solved if Crowley had chosen for him; unfortunately, the demon’s brain was completely unable to process anything beyond a Morse code of _Aziraphale, kiss, Aziraphale, Aziraphale, kiss._

When they finally managed to find a way to lock their lips, they swayed for a moment, or for five minutes, or an hour, or _we’ve both been dreaming of this for a few millennia, do you really think we’re counting?_ before they slipped from the sofa and fell on the floor. 

On one hand, this let both Aziraphale’s hands free to hold Crowley, to caress his back, his shoulders, his nape; to tickle him behind his ear, to run his fingers through his hair. On the other, it led to a sudden clash of Aziraphale’s tailbone with one of the few spots of the room that wasn’t covered by a carpet. 

“Ouch,” he grumbled. 

Crowley’s eyes widened. 

“Are you hurt?” he asked, a hint of fear in his voice. 

Aziraphale shook his head. 

“Come here,” he said. Then, almost as an afterthought, “I— I love you. You—” 

“I love you, angel.” 

They moved closer again. They both tilted their heads on one side, then on the other, staring into each other’s eyes. Crowley’s hand brushed Aziraphale’s cheek, then moved down to softly hold his chin; then they were kissing again. 

Their lips were learning to find their way almost instinctively, and their tongues decided to crash the party. 

Aziraphale suddenly remembered that his breakfast had included some lovely potatoes with copious amounts of garlic, and second-guessed this further stage of what was clearly the greatest endeavour of his six millennia (and twenty-three years, not counting the months and the days) spent on the same planet as Crowley; but apparently Crowley didn’t mind, because he refused to let Aziraphale go; quite the contrary, to be fair. Crowley's keenness also solved the _who’s-pulling-who-and-where_ problem that had presented itself on the sofa and was making a comeback on the floor, and soon the angel found himself on top of the demon. 

Aziraphale wriggled, looking for a way not to weigh too much on Crowley’s fragile frame. Crowley seemed to enjoy both the wriggling and the weight, and Aziraphale was glad to comply with the unspoken wish. Eventually, they found a configuration that almost made sense of the jigsaw puzzle of their limbs while allowing them to keep on kissing. 

_This feels like it felt being in Her arms_ , thought the angel, somehow realising that the idea was material for a dozen treatises and more than a few prayers, yet refusing to fully consider the theological implications of it. 

Apparently, Crowley _did_ consider them. He paused, slowly blinked once, and anxiously studied Aziraphale’s face. 

“Are you feeling well, angel?” he asked. 

Aziraphale stared at him. 

“Clearly—” he began, but struggled to go on. 

_“Are you feeling well?”_

“Of course, why—” 

“Are _you—_ ” 

“Oh. You mean—” 

“Yes. I mean that you just went from acting like a Victorian prude overwhelmed by enough Catholic guilt to fill St. Peter’s Square to _literally making out with a demon._ I’m not an expert when it comes to the theory, but I have some experience in the matter of getting on the wrong side of—” 

If they’d been sitting on the sofa, he would’ve been looking upwards; as things were standing (or, more precisely, as they were _not_ standing), he glanced towards Aziraphale’s old computer. 

“Oh. Erm.” 

“Yes. _Are you feeling well, angel?_ ” 

“Erm. Yes. Yes, I believe that She sees” — Aziraphale’s hand left Crowley’s hair to make a vague gesture, before going back to what was clearly its natural state — “that She considers, erm, _all of this_ as a manifestation of Love, which is intrinsically—” 

“Didn’t ask for a lecture, nor a sermon. I only want to make sure—” 

“No, I did not Fall,” the angel slowly said, weighing every word and looking into his demon’s eyes. 

“Good.” 

There was a moment of silence, then Aziraphale blushed and took a deep breath. 

“May I ask if this was—” 

“The first time. For you—” 

“Likewise. As you might’ve guessed from—” 

“Shall we try it again, angel?” asked Crowley, beaming. 

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, smiling. “But first—” 

“The milk. Yes.” 

They helped each other to get up from the floor, bumping their heads on the coffee table only three times in the process. 

Aziraphale decided to interpret it as a further testimony of Her blessing of their love, and a sign that they needed to get more acquainted with its physical manifestations — and soon. 

* * *

Several years later, while planning a move, someone asked Mr. and Mr. Crowley-Fell why they were going to drag that old battered sofa all the way the South Downs, where it would’ve clashed with the rustic aesthetic of their lovely cottage. 

“Good memories,” they said with one voice. 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! Comments are more than welcome — they make me happy. 
> 
> Unbetaed, we discorporate like Aziraphale. If you notice any errors, please tell me, I’ll be incredibly grateful!


End file.
